


A Witch's Tale

by Natasi (SwordDraconis113)



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Fantasy, Metafiction, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Violence, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 10:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7754386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordDraconis113/pseuds/Natasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come, let me tell you a story about the March Witch. Would you like to know of her? All you have to do is click just there, and I'll tell you everything you need to know.</p><p>But before you do, it would be wise to know that all things come with a price. Make sure you're willing, first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Witch's Tale

 

 

Would you like to know who I am, before we begin? It’ll cost you. Oh no, hush, fear not, I won’t kill you, not all at once. No, first I will deliver my end of the deal and tell you a tale about the Witch of the Marsh. She was my… _Motsaer._ That is the old word for it, is it not, dear one? It means, quite literally, “matriarch” I believe. 

You must understand though, before my pilgrimage, she and I had lived far away from any city, for much of my new life. The furthest I had ever traveled from her was to the trading post –– only a days walk if I left at the setting of the moon.

There, I would trade trinkets that the witch had given me, as it was my duty to know the worth of items that I bartered. She liked to test me and see what I came back with. Sometimes I would barter high and succeed, tricking a poor fool and pocketing something extra for myself. In say that, I have, more than once, failed to achieve my goal. Each time I had learnt it was better to trick a poor fool rather than risk her displeasure.

When the wet season came, the land below our hill would flood. During that time, only she ventured outside of our small farm. I would stand by the window and watch her shadows disappear through the mist that bogged over the lands, until such a time as when she would return. 

In her absence, the twisted, black limbs of drowned trees would become home to stone-still crows. Their black eyes would stare, unblinkingly as I worked the farm and cleaned our hovel.

When she did return, she would bring home three items. The first of which would be a gift for herself. She’d take this object and show it to me only once, before placing it into her wooden chest; I’ve seen many swords and shields, talons and teeth go into that wooden chest, but never once have I seen anything removed from it. 

The second object she revealed had always been for me. It was gifted only if I’d proven to be as good a stead as I had promised all those years ago. However, if I had failed in my duties, I was forced to burn the object and watch until it became ash. 

Dear one, I have burned only a handful of things from the hundred or so gifts she brought to me, but fear not, only a few were alive when I did so.

Now, the third item she brought has been many different things, on many different occasions. Sometimes it had been a replacement: a new pot to cook in, a goat for milk and cheese. Other times it had been a guest –– one whom would always vanish before dawn. But the most treasured thing that she brought home had always been one of her stories.

“Nieshka,” she would call to me. “Would you like to hear about the world?” And then I would bring out the bath and pour bucket after bucket of water into it, before I would heat the tub. When the bath was full and hot, I would undress her of her travelling clothes, and she would climb into the bath, sinking so the water rose to her breast. 

As I washed her skin clean and combed her dark hair, she would tell me her story. Sometimes they would go for hours and I would dress her as she spoke, and we would sit by the fire as she braided my hair, whispering her tale. Other times, they were brief.

One such story she spoke of was about a young knight. He had been favoured by a king, so she told me, and wore plated armour engraved with oak leaves. This was because the oak tree grew heartily in the knight’s kingdom and was often cut down and traded with many other, far away kingdoms.

This young knight, with his oak leafed armour, had travelled far from home, with only a single task: to find a missing princess. 

The princess had, of course, been taken on the cusp of maidenhood. A pretty-little-thing, so they still sing, only if so to woo such a knight into saving her. The truth, of course, isn’t always so simple. The princess, my mother told me, was just as fair as any other maiden you may find. She could not launch a thousand ships with a call, but she could, perhaps, make kingdoms fall with a few whispers in a few ears. She was a clever princess, but cleverness doesn’t woo knights.

Perhaps that is why the witch had taken her. Though, my _Motsaer_ never explained why such a witch took such a princess.

Ah, but the young knight had travelled across this world until the earth underneath his boots became loose and wet, until each step sank to his knees and he was forced to abandon his horse to the marshlands. 

You see, the prince had battled many foes in his efforts to find the princess. He had slain water dragons: twelve metres long, with sharp teeth and nests made of bones. He’d fought against the mountain trolls, where any one strike could knock his head from his shoulders. But, hardest of all, he had dealt with maidens near lakes, waiting to trick him off his path. 

Should he had listened to their call, as most lust-drawn individuals do, he would have sunk to the bottom of the lake, only to return as a voice to call out and lure another weary travellers down to his newfound home. 

In his many efforts to find the lost princess, he had climbed empty towers, and spoke into the deepest wells. He ventures across lands and spoke with their inhabitants. But only when he heard stories of the marshlands, did he think to venture there.

Perhaps if he had listened to the stories, he would have known to bring a gift to trade for the princess. But he had not listened and that had been his downfall.

As you well know, the marsh is unnaturally dead, with drowned carcasses bloated to make home for fish, and a constant fog that blots out the sky.

When the witch revealed herself to the young knight, he drew his sword, declaring his intentions before leaping forward. My witch told me that his weapon glinted in the low light and sliced only through the cold air.

She appeared behind him, laughing at the simpleness of mankind as he landed in the mud. When he rose his eyes to meet hers, he felt pain twist through his veins. 

You see, dear one, he’d fallen into her snare. His feet became roots and his arms turned to branches, soon, as she still laughed, his fingers cracked and groaned, becoming nothing more than desolate twigs. Last of all, his face twisted into a still carving on an old, dying tree as he screamed and cried, until he couldn’t anymore.

The witch then turned away, finished with him, just as she’d been with the others who’d ventured close before him. She returned home, I suppose, the story ended there, you see.

And as so my _motsaer_ would take me to bed and I would lie beside her and listen to her beating heart.

I’m sure you knew the moment you asked for my story, whom I was, so read carefully here when I say that I do not take kindly to thieves.

Shh, you do not have to fear the witch, she is long gone now. That is why I let you come here, you see. But a deal is a deal and I want my prize.

But you did not think to bring a gift, did you? You took my hospitality as unbinding kindness, that you can leave freely after knowing this story. 

That was your mistake. I think I’ll take my price, now.


End file.
